


Darling, Dearest, Dead

by AlmaOakley



Category: Rocky Horror Picture Show, The Rocky Horror Show - O'Brien
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28809600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmaOakley/pseuds/AlmaOakley
Summary: How far would you go to prove your genius? What would you do to protect someone you love? Where does one draw the line between passion and lunacy? Celeste "Sprite" Sanjati is about to find out the answer to all of these questions. And, with the help of a certain doctor, become one of the most distinctive case studies of all time.
Relationships: Frank N. Furter/Everyone
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here lies a revised, edited version of a little story some of you might remember as Bad Habits. If you are a previous fan: thanks for coming back! And if you’re new here: welcome! 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it. Hopefully we’ll get it finished this time!
> 
> Enjoy x

_Riff Raff faltered. Only for a second. His wrist was poised to tip the capsule into his master's drink. He was quite fond of sweets and Cognac, of an evening._

_The capsule shuddered between long and trembling fingers. His master had not yet returned from his revolting duties which called him upstairs._

_Riff's window of opportunity grew smaller by the second._

_This tiny capsule in the monster's skeletal hand had been prepared and developed long ago in anticipation of an occurrence such as this._

_The unthinkable, happened._

_Riff exhaled, and tipped the capsule into the glass._

_May God have mercy on his soul._

* * *

'May I see your ID?'

The cashier squinted at her provisional driver's license and seemed to stay there for an age before he nodded and, reluctantly, accepted her money for the alcohol.

A semblance of disbelief shrouding every transaction used to feel like an insult. She hated the constant reminder that she looked embarrassingly young for her age. Even trying to buy energy drinks was a challenge for her, despite celebrating her eighteenth over a year ago now.

The cashier kept a close eye on her as she put the bottles into her bag, followed her as she left the off-license, and didn't look away until she disappeared around the corner.

Her identification was perfectly real and genuine. Fake ID's were all so much work. If she were that desperate she would have stolen it. She'd gotten away with more than three bottles before.

Besides, only an idiot would choose such a stupid name for their 18+ alias. If she really were a sleuth, she'd have christened herself Jane Smith, or Miss Edwards, or W. J. Adams.

Not an under-the-table convict in the whole world bore the name Celeste Sanjati.

Safely out of sight of the sneering employee, she removed the bottles of blue curaçao, cherry liqueur and fizzy lemonade from their plastic bags and into her own rucksack. It was not uncommon to be walking home carrying alcohol only to be stopped by the police, as they always seemed to be patrolling around the area. After what happened last week in the flat next door, she would do anything to avoid those blue lights.

She slung her bag - obscenely heavy - onto her shoulders and began the short walk home. It was times like these, without music in her headphones to distract her, that she realised how lucky she was to live in such a place as this. Shoes peeling away from the sticky pavement with each step, smashed windows at every corner, shards of broken glass scattering torn fragments of rainbows across vulgar graffiti and the occasional homeless person shuddering under a bus shelter.

Lucky indeed.

Her key got stuck in the door when she tried to let herself in. She banged on the door, cursing under her breath, just hoping that someone could let her in. It could be hours, or days, or even weeks before one of her flat mates return after leaving the flat unannounced one day. They all had one issue or another, and were constantly disappearing from the face of the earth only to reappear again later. Eventually. Time was hazy sometimes.

There were four of them that moved in all together. You've been housed, they said, which one do you want?

Choosing the nicest flat in one of the poorest boroughs in London was kind of like choosing the tallest dwarf. All four had come up through the foster care system: bouncing around various homes, running away from this one, being sent back to the orphanage from that one, relocated for no feasible reason from the other one.

At least they had one thing in common.

At the ripe old age of eighteen one is declared an adult, and therefore independent. One is immediately removed from their "home" and relocated somewhere - anywhere - else, and expected to fend for themselves. At the very least, she now lived in a derelict flat and had all her independence. She could have ended up like many others, and become a ward of the state under appointed guardianship. Thank heavens she wasn't mentally ill, prone to violent tendencies, and alcohol dependant enough for anyone to notice.

She banged on the door again. The stairs creaked in response this time. The tall boy with crippling anxiety let her in. She was surprised to see him. He hasn't left the house in ten months, but usually he was high as a kite on a cocktail of drugs or spending his day asleep. She hadn't seen him animated in a very long time.

Her phone rang halfway up the stairs to her room. It was a FaceTime call, from a friend who she didn't always like, but brightened up upon seeing her number because she already knew what she was going to ask.

'Hey, Sprite!' She was always so cheery for such a dreary existence. Relentless optimism was challenging for someone like her. 'Are you busy tonight?'

Selma lived in the outskirts of the borough, right next door to a patch of woodland. It could be pretty: the sun filtering through the tress in summertime, glowing golden brown in the autumnal stages. Her favourite time to see the woods (from the outside looking in) was the beginning of the new year. A scenic picture of those woods wrapped in their winter blanket could become a postcard, or transcribed with a message to a loved one at Christmas time.

Every leaf and blade of grass seemed clad, miraculously, with glass.

The alluring scenic location, a true stand of defiance for all of nature, had been somewhat morbidly coined the End of Things. One ventures into those woods, they do not come back out.

Such a deceptive place of beauty associated with fear and loathing. With madness.

Selma's bedroom window provided such an opportunity that she would often see people walking towards the woods, and catch them before they went in. She would talk to them, reason with them, and invite them in for a cup of her famous herbal tea and a slice of whatever cake she had in her cupboard that day. She had tasted the floral notes three times since moving in. Victoria Sponge at eighteen, on the dot. She'd been there less than four hours. Lemon drizzle six months later. She had relations with a much older man in exchange for drugs. Alcohol didn't quite hit the spot anymore, and she didn't have a penny to her name. The guilt was too much to bear. Red velvet, just last week. An entire life sprawled out in front of her, promising nothing but unfulfillment and loneliness.

She didn't always like Selma because she kept interfering with her plans. She didn't always like Selma because she owed a debt that she could never repay. She didn't always like Selma - but loved her unconditionally.

Selma had given her a nickname, and an overdue excuse to stop people calling her by her first name.

Selma herself had been in and out of rehab all her adult life. Born addicted to heroin, the addictive tendencies carried through into adulthood and saw her spending more time in correctional facilities than she did at her own home. The flat she lived in now was allocated to her on account of all its inhabitants either recovering from or fully recovered drug addicts. After meeting each other in quite an unorthodox way, she noticed the glass bottle of Sprite in her hand. She explained that, upon smashing it, the bottle was the sharpest thing she had. She felt awfully silly and embarrassed at the time. But it was because she'd calmed down, and that was probably the objective in the first place.

Selma looked at her, expressionless, and said, 'You were going to attempt suicide with a bottle of Sprite?'

Hearing the sentence aloud was so funny that she just burst into hysterical laughter and tears at the same time. Selma put her arms around her and reminded her that this was not the only way out, and if she ever needed someone to talk to, Selma would always be there. Now they barely knew each other at this point, so she asked why she was being so kind to her.

'I've been there,' she said. 'I know what it's like. I vowed, then, to be the friend I wish I'd had when I was just like you.'

Selma offered to take her home, then realised she didn't know her name.

Celeste was a thing of the past now. She had been given a new life, that day. Her old self, the one that had drove her to such despair, she didn't want anything to do with her now.

She sniffed, and said, 'Call me Sprite.'

They called each other at least once a week, if not more, and made an effort to see each other once a month. Now, it seemed, was one of those times.

Sprite decided not to tell Selma that she'd made plans with her friends blue curaçao and liqueur. Instead, she responded, 'I might be,' with a smirk.

'Come over?' She batted her dark eyes imploringly. 'Please? It'll just be me and you and we can pick a movie and order takeaway and we can catch up because I feel like I haven't seen you in ages!'

Selma was in her late twenties. Almost ten years older than Sprite, but she never felt out of place spending time with Selma. She had a good sense of humour, and as a social worker specialising in gang prevention, always some good stories to tell.

Sprite would have to drink that alcohol now. 'Okay, if I must.' She grinned. 'What time do you want me there?'

'Come over now, if you want. There's a new crime series starting on Netflix, that's supposed to be good.'

'Thirty minutes. I'll bring some Coke?'

'You're a gem. See you soon!'

Sprite blew a kiss to the screen and put her phone in a smaller bag, along with her card, her key, her headphones, and a handful of notes. Just in case.

She pulled a two litre bottle of Coke from the fridge and poured half of it down the sink. She opened the bottle of vodka with her teeth (her bottle opener had broken and she'd been biting off lids ever since) and carefully refilled the bottle with half a bottle of neat vodka. She screwed the lid on tight and shook it. It would have calmed down by the time she got to Selma's.

Selma only liked cherry flavoured Coke.

* * *

'This series is shit.'  
  
They'd hoovered their way through two lard pizzas, three bowls of popcorn and had a quarter of cherry coke left to drink. Sprite had drained her bottle long ago. She was starting to feel it again.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

Selma frowned. She wasn't expecting any visitors (she wondered aloud who it could be on her way to the door), but upon unlatching and opening, the atmosphere instantly changed.

Who had come into the house?

Sprite got up to go to her, but was nearly knocked over by a small group of strangers that pushed their way in and made themselves at home. Selma followed afterwards. Her face was white.

'Selma?' Sprite went over to her, whispering. 'What's going-?'

'It's late, Sprite. You should be going home.'

'No I'm not leaving you with - who are these people?'

'Friends. I know them.'

Sprite didn't believe her. 'Selma you can't just let anyone into your house, they could be-!'

'They will do what they need to do, then they will leave. I'll be fine. I promise.'

Sprite watched her carefully. She chewed on her lip, a nervous habit she'd always had. Her hands fidgeted, her eyes darted around the room like a wounded deer. 

They had cleared everything off of the table and set up various pieces of equipment, assembled from each of their bags.

Sprite looked at her. 'Selma.'

'It's fine,' she murmured. 'They don't come here very often, they haven't in months. I won't let myself get into any trouble and had I known they would appear tonight I never would have let you in. I'm so sorry, Sprite.'

'You can't stay here.'

'I can't leave. All the kids know me around here, they'll be asking all sorts of questions.'

Bags of white powder and a handful of large syringes now accumulated on the table alongside the makeshift laboratory. They went through Selma's bag, her things, all while she stood by and let it happen.

Sprite was not used to this rattled, cowed Selma. Selma had the biggest heart she'd ever seen in anyone, but no one in their right mind would ever cross her. She could shout you down until you shrivelled up into a dried pea on the floor from yesterday's dinner. She had a way of explaining things so you could understand them. Phrasing things in a way that only you could learn from.

Sprite had no idea how long this had been going on. How long Selma had been holding this in, and not telling anyone. How many times Selma had relapsed.

'Selma you can't be in here. This is just too unfair on you.' She took hold of her shoulders - hot, trembling - and forced her to make eye contact. 'Come home with me now and I won't tell anyone. I swear I won't breathe a word if you don't want me to. I have a double bed, there's enough room for you to stay the night.' She set her hands on her cheeks. 'Please?'

It might have worked. Sprite might have convinced Selma to step away and perhaps even alert the authorities, providing she felt brave enough the day after.

If the youngest girl in the group hadn't reached into her bag and pulled out another full bottle of cheap vodka.

If Sprite wasn't feeling it before, she definitely was now.

That was both of them out for the count now. Selma was lagging, and could sense it, and Sprite was hopeless to resist before she even let go of Selma's face.

The night would be...interesting.

To say the least.

* * *

Sprite didn't remember leaving the house. She didn't remember how much she'd drunk, or what she'd taken. She didn't remember anything, after taking a shot of tequila a couple of hours in, and thinking that it tasted funny.

Sprite didn't remember stumbling through the blackened woods, until she came to herself. Standing in the thicket of the End of Things.

The woods tilted and leered around her. She leaned heavily against a rotting tree trunk and pressed her forehead against the ice cold surface. It was nice, for a moment. Soothing.

Time lapsed again, and she was kneeling on the floor. Mud oozed between her fingers. She grabbed handfuls and squeezed, as if the sensation of her nails digging into her hands made her real. She sat on her heels. Screaming.

She watched herself get up and walk away as if someone pulled a switch. No crying, no shaking. She just stopped, and walked, and Sprite didn't know who was walking around in the woods or where they were supposed to be going. She called out to the girl, but heard only her own voice reverberate in her ears. From her vantage point hovering above her own body, she saw a light, faint, in the distance. She willed her avatar to walk towards it. Ignoring all the previous spoken advice of don't go into the light.

Her hand was bleeding. 

Her bag. Who took it? 

Where was she?

How did she get here?

Sprite posed these questions to the stars. They twinkled back, disgusted. The stars said nothing. Only the moon looked down.

The moon had never looked so big. It seemed to be gravitating towards her. She outstretched a hand and the moon came forwards, responding to her pull. She fancied she could see every crater. Every detail.

She came away with moondust glistening on her hands.

Sprite blinked, and a door stood in front of her. A great frowning rustic door, flanked by watchful gargoyles. They seemed indifferent to her presence. Perhaps they'd been expecting her.

Reality had crashed and burned. Sprite reached out, hand quaking. Hot tears streamed into her trembling mouth.

She didn't understand. She wanted to go home.

The shock of meeting a solid door at the tips of her fingers yanked her consciousness back into her body with excruciating force. She fell forwards, pushing open the door with her weight, and vomited spectacularly all over the wooden floor.

She stumbled further into the room, grasping for anything to help keep her balance. Her hand closed around the back of a chair and Sprite screamed. She'd forgotten the nasty gash in her hand, which had since been caked with mud.

She managed to sit herself down in a high backed velvet chair and put her head between her knees. For the first time a feeling she recognised as all encompassing fear overtook her. A panic attack claimed her in the chair, throughout which she roused herself with her own shrieks. She woke up in an uncomfortable position on the stairs. Woke up, came to herself. Realised she wasn't dead. Time meant nothing. Not anymore.

She knelt up and retched again, between the gaps in the bannister this time. Her teeth chattered harder than ever. The high should have worn off by now. She looked, and the magical door stood wide open, across the room from where she stood. Diluted moonbeams spilled across the floorboards. The chair she'd collapsed into stood not five steps away from her.

How long had it taken her to get here?

As long as it took to find herself staring at an unknown ornate door. She didn't remember getting there either. The room span too much to look around. She didn't have it in her to fall to her knees and burn her throat raw again.

The door handle rattled in her hand. Noisy. Too much noise. She let go and the quiet came thick, and fast, again. Soothing. But she couldn't stand up for much longer. She'd close the door behind herself for some security, lie down and let whatever happened, happen. She was too exhausted to give much thought to anything else.

Sprite wanted to open the door. But something kept making far too much noise. She held on to it and it screamed, as if the very furniture in this house rejected her being there. Her hand hurt too much to push the handle down. Her other hand weighed a ton. She couldn't use it.

Resilient and resourceful by nature, she took a deep breath, angled her hip towards the door, and shoved with all of her might.

Something snapped, and the door flew open.

She took a door knocker to the face when it hit the wall and swung back, but made it safely into the room before fatigue overtook her and she hit the floor again.

Something winked at her from under the bed. Two somethings. She grappled for one, intrigued, and turned it around multiple times in her hands before she realised she was holding a silver stiletto heel. It sparkled in the sickly light. Like her fingertips, after she'd touched the moon.

Sprite looked. The curtains were open.

If she was staring at the mismatched shoes and discarded stockings and forgotten vibrators under the bed, then the real bed must be right up there.

Sprite got excited to take a nap, shot up, and bashed her head on the iron bed frame. She burst into exhausted, pathetic, hysterical tears. She stayed where she fell, wailing into the abyss. Crying so loud, was she, that she didn't hear the door open and someone making their way over to her. Very, very slowly.

Her hysteria turned to blazing anger in the same instant that a gentle hand touched her shoulder. She acted upon reflex, so barely noticed how she bit the wrist of the hand that felt her, how she kicked and scratched at the legs trying to crouch to her level. Not even how, upon realising she was lying in a bed and looking at the ceiling, she turned, seized a handful of hair just visible in the dim light and pulled the entire person towards her with sheer brute strength.

Halfway through she got tired again, relaxed, and began to sob quietly. She stared vacantly at the clump of black curls entwined around her fingers. Where did she get that?

I'm so tired, she thought. I just want to go to sleep.

'Close your eyes then, darling.' She must have spoken out loud. 'I'll keep you safe until morning.'

She wasn't afraid. In fact, the presence of another person seemed incredibly comforting to her now. At least she wouldn't go alone, if tonight was her time after all. She remembered feeling a gentle hand on her skin and suddenly yearned to be held. She reached out blindly in the direction of the disembodied voice, and was pleased almost instantly when someone entwined their fingers with hers and squeezed. Eyes closed, she shuffled closer to close the distance between herself and her caretaker. She wanted to feel strong arms around her.

'No no no, sweet girl. Don't move. I'll come to you.' She sensed someone kneel down next to the bed and - to her delight - slip their hand through her hair. She grinned, and giggled softly.

The other person chuckled gently in response. 'Oh, darling,' they murmured. 'Whatever have you done to yourself?'

She inhaled sharply. None of this was her fault!

'Shh...don't worry about that now, little one. Rest now. We'll have a talk in the morning.'

Morning. Really? Sprite wouldn't mind slipping away like this. Fate had been kind to her, and given her someone nice to look after her. The hands were soft, and gentle, and the person's rich and fruity tones were calming. 

It was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it. Thanks for sticking by me for so long.
> 
> Alma Oakley


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for the kudos! As a general rule I will try and keep the update schedule to once a week. We’ll see how that goes!

_My stomach hurts like shit. And what is that awful smell?_

Sprite came to herself in waves of reluctant nausea. Scenery pulling in and out of focus. The floor swayed in front of her, splattered with chunks of stinking vomit.

A line of drool dangled from her lower lip. Razor blades seemed embedded in her throat.

It was hard work being so glamorous.

She groaned and pushed herself on her arms, only to flop back down against firm pillows and an outrageously comfortable mattress. She turned on her side and snuggled further into the luxurious comforts. A hangover from hell was not a new experience. Sprite knew better than to attempt anything other than lying in a quiet, dark room, and sleeping the worst of it off.

Her own bed had never felt so comfortable.

Sprite sighed deeply. It smelled different in here. Calming, somehow. Notes of musk and greasepaint and incense lingered in the air around her.

She blearily opened her eyes, just to check the time before going back to sleep. But her nightstand was not there, nor the digital clock with its fluorescent colour of alien green.

She blinked, and tried to understand what she was looking at.

Across the room from her, leaning against the wall, was a high backed velvet chair. In the high backed velvet chair, sat a person. Too lanky to sit comfortably in such an impractical seat. One leg crossed over the other, neck curving unnaturally to one side, lips slightly parted.

They were asleep. And they were snoring.

Sprite sat up very slowly. The satin covers slipped off her bare arms. She wore a black silk pyjama set that she didn't dress herself in last night. She wasn't sure if she even owned such a vest top and shorts. The feeble sunlight streamed in from the wrong side of the room. No wonder the bed felt so comfortable, it wasn't her bed at all. She sat, half-swallowed by an impossibly huge four poster bed, swathed in satin sheets of the deepest black she'd ever seen. The pillows were a shade of rich, vampire red, each with a "F" embroidered into the middle in gold cursive lettering. The unfamiliar smell came from the colour changing oil burner on the other side of the room, placed on an intricately designed vanity table. It should have been gorgeous, except the table was filthy, smeared with thick black pigment, loose glitter and stray false eyelashes dried out and crusted into the vintage mahogany. The mirror, however (rimmed with naked lightbulbs more suited to the likes of Judy Garland's dressing room than some country house in the middle of nowhere) was spick and span. Ahead of her stood a floor to ceiling mirrored wardrobe. What a sorry sight stared back at her.

Dragged though a hedge backwards was an understatement. Her hair, her glossy, silver pride and joy stuck out in all directions, and a sizeable clump stood up on its own. It had lost its shine, and the carefully crafted smell of roses and high end hair oils was smothered by alcohol and stale vomit. Evidently she'd passed out in her makeup. Some lipstick had smeared onto her forehead. She needed a pack of makeup wipes and a hot shower. And something for that rather unattractive egg on her head.

Only then, did she realise. She was now in very real danger.

Everything else could be explained away, albeit, as a very far fetched dream, but once Sprite saw the swelling on her scalp she recalled bashing her head on something impossibly hard. From then on, she only remembered the pain. Exquisite pain.

She looked over at her anonymous babysitter. Dead to the world. Now that she had somewhat pulled herself together, she took in the appearance of her sleeping sentry with a fresh pair of eyes.

She'd never seen anything like it.

They sported a full head of crazy curls, jet black against the starling white of their face. Caked in pale foundation, their face in contrast to their neck gave them illusion of taking the head from one doll and ramming it onto a another doll's body. Sharp and angular, they had the most extraordinary face Sprite had ever seen. And that had nothing to do with the heavy eye makeup and thin arched eyebrows, along with a poorly overdrawn red lip. Ludicrously long eyelashes touched their cheeks, casting wispy shadows over circles of scarlet blusher as they slept.

As if their compromising posture wasn't uncomfortable enough, they slept trussed up in a shimmering black corset. She'd only ever seen those in the magazines. They wore black silken underwear, stockings, garters and a garter belt from what seemed to be a matching set. They even had shoes on: silver chunky platform heels, that tossed rainbows about the room with each twitch and stir. A pair of black meshed gloves completed the look, keeping everything in line with the glam rock aesthetic.

Sprite wasn't sure if she was staring at a man or a woman. At this point, she was too afraid to ask.

Get up and sneak out. That was her plan. She'd woken up safe after an entire night in here, she obviously hadn't stumbled into the den of a serial killer. Unless that's what they wanted her to think, and it was all a game of psychology. Which meant she had a small opportunity to retrieve her belongings, find the exit and run far away before the person in the chair woke up.

She swung her legs out of bed and stood up. Tripped on the excess bedsheets, and staggered into the wardrobe with a loud crash.

The person inhaled sharply and opened their eyes. They looked around for a moment, perhaps, like her, not recognising where they were. Their face was expressionless when they looked at her, but their hazel eyes were piercing.

Sprite ducked into the wardrobe and slammed the door behind her.

She backed up as far into the wall as she could go, pulling feather boas and fur coats around herself for extra padding. Her ankle went over on a rogue platform and she sat down hard, shrinking even further into the safety net of real mink and broken heels. As her eyes adjusted, she seemed to find herself hiding in an affluent female's wardrobe. What strange place had she ended up in?

Sprite could smell a thick, heavy sent coming from the fur covering her face. It was the same scent that permeated the bedclothes.

'Darling?' The voice was tentative. Careful. 'Darling, you're not in any danger. I promise. I won't hurt you.'

Sprite was shaking. Hot tears rolling down her cheeks. He was a man after all. All this new information was terribly overwhelming.

She cried, 'I don't know where I am.'

'I know, love, I know. You're doing very well. Would you tell me your name, so I can help you?'

Sprite wiped her eyes with the hem of the fur coat. Black, runny mascara would stain that exquisite garment now. 'Who are you?'

'My name is Frank, I'm a scientist. I live here with my live-in servants, and you're hiding in my wardrobe.' The floorboards creaked as he stepped closer. 'I looked after you last night. I swear to you I won't hurt you. Don't you think I would have done so by now?'

Sprite had that thought herself. She rose to her feet cautiously, letting the heavy fur slip away. She crept closer to the door. Paused, listening hard. Only the sound of her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears.

With a shaking hand, she reached out and slowly pushed the door open.

Sprite left the gap just wide enough to peer out of with one eye. From her muddled vision she could see one heeled shoe, travelling upwards to a ripped and dirty fishnet stocking with a large hole in the knee. Long and wild black hair framed a sincere face, burning with the deepest sympathy and the greatest concern. One striking eye softened at her appearance.

He gave a gentle smile. 'Hi, doll.'

She didn't move. Too scared for formalities. 'How did I get here?'

'I don't know, darling. Perhaps you could come out and we'll discuss it together?'

He made to step forwards but she darted back into the safety of the wardrobe. He stepped back further away than before, hands up in acceptance.

'Don't come near me.'

'I'm sorry, sweet girl, I didn't mean to frighten you.' His brow furrowed in exasperation. 'But you have to tell me your name. You can't stay in my wardrobe forever.'

That tickled her, but she suppressed a laugh. Don't even smile in front of him, Sprite. Keep your guard up.

She inhaled deeply and whispered, 'I'm Sprite.'

He smiled kindly at her. 'Is that your real name?' She fidgeted nervously. The smile broadened. 'It's not, is it? My name is Frank-N-Furter - doctor Frank-N-Furter, to be precise - but I like my friends to call me Frank. Do you like your friends to call you Sprite?'

She nodded once. Her back was aching with all this tension.

'Well now, look at that.' He stepped closer and she didn't flinch. 'We already have something in common.'

He was right about one thing.

'Won't you come out, darling?'

It was too stuffy in here.

'Please?'

For lack of a better weapon, she removed a fine tooth comb from the pocket of one of the smarter suede pea coats and crept out into the light.

He flashed her a smile, showing off a full set of gleaming white teeth. Too many teeth, perhaps. Unnatural. Like a shark.

'There she is.' He was taking this remarkably well. His voice was calm and authoritative. As if she was the third girl to collapse on him this week. 'Now then, little mouse—,' He grinned, '—I don't suppose you remember me calling you that, do you? I've never known hiccups to be a side effect of drugs before. You squeaked away to yourself all night.' His face softened, abandoning the teasing from here on in. 'What can I call you?'

She was too scared. Her chest aches fiercely. 'Well I - I mean, you can - my, my real name is Celeste, but no one - nobody calls me that. Most people they - everyone I know calls me Sprite.'

He - Frank, she supposed she must call him now - stayed respectfully silent, and didn't tease or laugh at her for struggling with her words. He maintained eye contact, even when she couldn't, and nothing but sympathy and care flowed from those eyes.

He gave a small smile and extended his right hand.

The more dominant part of her wanted to run back into the wardrobe, but Sprite saw the gesture immediately for what it was. The least threatening way possible to establish contact. He made it clear enough times he wasn't going to hurt her. And like Frank said, wouldn't he have done so by now, if that was really on his agenda?

Sprite took a few trembling steps forwards and tentatively accepted the firm handshake.

Even his hands felt womanly. Long, slender and startlingly smooth. He gave her own hand (hot and sweaty from anxiety, how embarrassing) a comforting squeeze.

'Thanks for looking after me.'

That dashing smile again, eyes sparkling this time. Sprite wondered how many people had fallen into his bed before her because of that smile.

He pressed the back of her hand to his sticky red mouth. 'The pleasure's all mine.' He winked, and let go of her hand. Part of her wanted to hold on. She rather liked the sensation of his unusually warm hand curled around her own.

'Do you want me to call you Celeste?'

She was so hypnotised she almost didn't hear the question. She shook her head. He pursed his lips in thought. 'I don't think I can call you Sprite...' he narrowed his eyes at her and she heard herself giggle. 'Mind if I call you Lessie instead?'

Well. At least it wasn't the horrid Celie she despised.

She shook her head again.

'Well then, Lessie. I believe you have my comb.'

Sprite jumped, having forgotten she was holding it. Caught red handed. How embarrassing. Sprite tossed it to him. Frank tried to catch it, missed, and sent it skidding into the pike of cold sick festering on the floor.

Frank's mouth curled downwards in a grimace. His nose twitched like a rabbit.

'Shall we go somewhere else?'

* * *

Sprite pinched herself multiple times between waking up and now. This was absolutely, categorically, not a dream.

She looked at the world around her with a sense insatiable fascination. Frank let her use his en suite bathroom first, where she washed the stale makeup off her face and chewed some toothpaste to get rid of the taste in her mouth. He took her gently by the arm and brought her down a dark and gloomy corridor, down the carpeted stairs she passed out on last night, and into a small sort of seating area.

Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies in sweeping dresses adorned these couches and armchairs, in a time before. Notes of brandy and cigar smoke could be picked up if she concentrated hard enough.

Frank's house was very grand, very beautiful, but hadn't been taken care of very well in the recent past. Expensive furniture was faded and fraying. Some chairs missed a leg. The couch she sat on now sported a huge hole in the upholstery. Luxurious wallpaper, but blistered, and peeling. She noticed rotting wood, cracked tiles, and all sorts of mysterious stains on the journey down here. An iron wrought elevator didn't seem to be working.

She wondered exactly how old the house was. How long ago it had been erected. How long ago Frank had made it his home.

What kind of things occur in a house when nobody knows its there.

'Here we are, my darling.' Frank placed a full tea tray on the table in front of her: laced napkins, teaspoons of the finest silverware, a small porcelain jug of milk and a matching dish filled with brown and white sugar cubes. Two full cups of tea rested on pretty saucers with a pot of tea in between them, tied together quite nicely with two plates of sliced cake. A fruitcake on one and some sort of cherry sponge on the other. Everything about this display was pretty and dainty, she'd never seen such care and precision go into a simple cup of tea before. At home she just boiled the kettle and squashed the teabag against the side of the mug for extra flavour. It was refreshing and an altogether pleasant experience to be surrounded by such grace and decorum. Like she'd stepped through a portal in time, and found herself in the nineteenth century.

'Don't be shy, darling, tuck in. Help yourself to some cake if you'd like. My domestic makes them, they're divine.'

Frank had mentioned something about live in servants before. She had been too scared to pay much attention.

Frank dropped six cubes of sugar into his tea. 'Now then, little mouse,' Sprite winced herself when he took a sip but the Bergamot flavoured syrup seemed to go down just fine. 'I'm madly curious to hear your little story. However I understand you must have some burning questions of your own. I'll let you go first.'

Charmed. Sprite fidgeted nervously in her seat. _Where to start...?_

'What time did I get here?'

'Around three o'clock in the morning.'

'And what happened?'

'I took care of you.' For all his peculiarities, he did have the loveliest smile. 'You were very distressed, understandably. Do you want me to be honest?' She nodded. 'You were screaming, crying, you didn't know where you were, _who_ you were, how you'd got here. There was nothing else for me to do, except put you in my bed and try to calm you down. I slept in the _chair_ , darling, don't worry about that. I promise I didn't do anything indecent towards you. I'd never dream of such a thing.'

It was possible for Frank to have scrambled into the chair and feigned sleep upon feeling her stir, but Sprite felt disinclined to be suspicious of him in that respect.

'If it's not too bold of me to say, sweet girl, I've never seen anyone as intoxicated as you were last night. You couldn't answer any of my questions. You wouldn't respond to anything - except "little mouse". I don't suppose you remember that, do you?' He poked his tongue out with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. 'In the intervals where you did relax, you made the most peculiar sounds in your sleep. I suppose you were too restless for anything more than a light doze. You liked it when I called you that, so I kept doing it. It made you smile, which was of a great comfort and encouragement to me.

'You didn't want to be left alone during the night. You were very keen on me playing with your hair, and it calmed you down, so I kept doing it. But please rest assured, darling, even though you were in no fit state to consent, I stroked your hair and held your hand and I didn't do anything more.'

Sprite took a moment to take all of this in. She didn't remember being given her own pet name. She didn't remember anything. She concluded she didn't really mind that Frank had been tactile with her to calm and soothe her. He could have picked her up and thrown her right back out the door again.

'Did I hurt you?'

He failed to suppress a filthy smirk. 'A little,' he admitted, 'but you were petrified, you didn't know who I was. I understand.' He stuck his tongue out at her. His eyes were glittering. 'You kicked me and tried to scratch me. I might discover a bald patch in the back of my head but it could have been worse. You could have scratched the paintwork.'

He winked, showing off those perfect teeth. She wanted to feel his firm hands around hers again. Again, she heard herself giggling.

'Did you put me in these clothes?'

'No, darling. I had my domestic dress you. I didn't see anything. I could have let you sleep in your day clothes but you were caked in mud and filth and I wasn't comfortable leaving you like that.'

That triggered a memory. Her hands!

She stated at her flawless palms, incredulous. 'I had a cut on my hand—.'

'Oh, and what a ghastly thing it was, too!' Frank frowned and patted the back of her hand as if making sure it was feeling okay. 'My domestic must take credit for that as well, I'm afraid. She cleaned you up - to the best of her ability, given the circumstances - and dressed you in clean sleeping clothes.'

'There's no scar or anything.'

'A true master of her craft.' He paused. 'Mistress. Whatever.' He grinned and rested his chin atop interlocked hands, leaning his meshed elbows on the table. He batted his long eyelashes at her endearingly.

'Won't you entertain me now, my darling girl?'

Sprite braced herself emotionally. She supposed she could only avoid it for so long.

'Remind me, little mouse, what was that lovely name of yours?'

'Celeste Sanjati.'

'And how old are you?'

'Nineteen.'

'Nineteen? My, you're practically a lady.'

Again, she heard herself giggling.

'How much do you remember, leading up to last night?' Sprite fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. This was going to be difficult. 'It's alright, darling.' He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. It didn't even feel like there used to be a gash there. 'Take your time.'

Sprite really tried to gather her thoughts. Frank had been nothing but good and kind to her. he deserved an explanation.

'I was at a friend's house,' she began. Selma. Oh no, Selma! This was the first time she'd given her a thought all day. She opened she was alright. 'She doesn't live too far from me.'

'Where's that?'

'On the outskirts of London. I'm not sure how far it is from here - my memory isn't that great, we've established that - but the flat I was in is right next to these woods. You can see them from her bedroom window.'

'This is not where you live?'

'No. I live about twenty minute's walk away.'

'Are you happy there?'

His hands were very warm. Sprite wondered what they would feel like under her shirt. And immediately afterwards, where the hell that thought had come from.

'My flat is a bit...tired.'

She flushed. She didn't answer the question.

'I couldn't find a phone, or any belongings of yours last night. You must have left them at home?' She didn't remember either way. 'Your poor mother must be worried sick.'

Ah. That was a clever way of swerving back into the question.

'My mum's dead.'

If it wasn't such a serious topic, Sprite would have laughed at Frank's horrified expression.

'Darling I'm so sorry I didn't-.'

'It's okay, you weren't to know. I suppose most people don't assume that from the outset. People react in the same way, however.' She attempted a humourless laugh. See? Awkward.

'When - how - oh you poor thing I can't even begin to—.' Frank locked his hands behind his head and grimaced helplessly. He looked like he was going to cry. 'Who's looking after you?'

She shrugged. 'Myself, I guess? I grew up in foster care - which is where they put you if your parents can't or won't look after you. Even when my mum was alive I barely saw her. She was in no fit state to raise children. She died when I was twelve. One too many tequila sunrises, I expect.'

'Your father couldn't take you in?'

'I don't know who my father is. He could be anyone, anywhere. Dead or alive. I wouldn't have the faintest idea where to start looking for him and I don't think I'd ever want to.'

Frank looked this close to climbing over the table and taking her in his arms. Sprite would quite happily take him up on that offer.

'These...caretakers. Were they kind to you?'

'Sometimes.'

He winced. Thankfully, he didn't probe any further. Out of respect for her, or to hold himself together, she didn't know. Probably both.

'So, this friend you were visiting. What were you doing there?'

'She'd invited me over to have a sleepover. We were going to watch movies and eat pizza.'

'What did you watch?'

'A TV series in the end. The new crime drama on Netflix.'

He looked at her vacantly. Somehow Sprite knew he wouldn't have a clue about streaming services.

'It was going well, until...' she stopped. That all encompassing fear was too harrowing to recall. It was a physical recollection. Her heart beat faster, her temperature rose, even her breathing quickened.

'Lessie?' He frowned in concern. 'Do you need to take a moment?'

'My friend Selma is a recovered drug addict.' Better to blurt it out while she had the chance than to be sitting on it for the foreseeable future. 'She's a very kind lady. She will do anything for anyone. No task is asking too much of her. I've always thought this trait of hers is a blessing and a curse at times. While I was there a group of random people pushed their way in and set up a makeshift drugs lab right there on the table. Selma didn't look outraged or petrified. She just accepted it. They had been using her room in the flat as a central hub for a while, that's what her reaction led me to believe. Selma is so strong for everybody. I don't know how long she'd been keeping that a secret, or how many times she'd relapsed without anyone knowing.' All of a sudden Sprite felt the most demanding need to cry. 'I'm scared for her. I need to know that she's alright.'

Frank spoke very softly. 'Is that what you'd taken?'

'I drank myself stupid, and I have no idea what I took or how much. Anything could have happened to me if it weren't for you. I shouldn't have done it. I put you in an impossible position.' She looked up at him. Only a black and red blur was visible through her watery eyes. 'I'm sorry.'

Frank finally did what he had been itching to do, and pushed the table out of the way to sit with her on the faded sofa. He gathered her up close in a strong hug and she rested her head on his chest. He smelled very nice.

'You've been a very brave girl.' His voice rumbled through his chest. 'Thank you for being so honest with me. I'll keep this between us, I swear it.' She didn't say anything for fear of crying. She shuffled closer and put her arms around his neck. He chuckled, lightly grazing his long nails over her back. 'Now, you say you don't know how you friend is?' She shook her head. 'Do you know how to call her?' Sprite hoped she could remember Selma's phone number. She nodded. 'Well, perhaps we can—.'

A terrible shrieking noise of metal on metal rang out from another room. Sprite jumped a mile and hid her face in Frank's shoulder. He tensed up a little in surprise, but quickly relaxed and seemed to be more annoyed than anything else.

He exhaled slowly. 'I'm _so_ sorry, my darling. You stay there I'll be right back.'

He gently pushed her from his lap into the cushioned seat next to him and fitted out of the room.

Sprite watched the open door after he'd disappeared. Do I look that good running away?

She listened very hard but could only make out two new voices. Heavily accented with an Eastern European lilt rather than the extreme brand of Queen's English she'd grown accustomed to. Frank's accent was so outrageous, at first she thought he was pretending. It didn't waver once, not even when the topic of dead parents fell into the conversation.

She couldn't make out what they were saying. She was too far away for any details.

Sprite broke off a small piece of cherry sponge and chewed it carefully. Frank was right. It really was delicious.

Frank's heavy shoes came clumping up the stairs just in time for her to hurriedly put the cake back. Her tea had now gone cold.

Frank came over to her and sank down to her level, fingers splayed over both wrists. He had that look on his face again. Inviting her to share a filthy secret.

'Would you like to stay for dinner?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t we all wished that Frankie would see something cute and endearing about us and go out of his way to fawn over us and completely smother us in the process.
> 
> No? Just me? Okay.
> 
> Alma Oakley


End file.
